


Light the Darkness

by Fuyune



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Boss Fight, Cross-breed, Dragons, Fights, Gen, Jolly cooperation, Knight, Magic, Miracles, Pyromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuyune/pseuds/Fuyune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fictional boss fight between the Unkindled One and the Firekeeper, where she pulls out the coiled sword from the Firelink Shrine and uses it to fight, shrouding the room in total darkness, the embers from the weapon as the only source of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Consumed King

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfiction here, and surprisingly it's about Dark Souls III! I was originally planning on publishing a Dragon Age II one but... it's been under work for more than a year and meh. So, I was prompted by a tumblr post which I momentarily can't find (will add when found) about this fight, and since I've been loving the game since the release I tried writing something about it. This is my first public fiction ever, and I hope this looks good. Beware that I'm not a native english speaker, as I'm italian, but I still went forth and tried my chances. Hope you enjoy this, see you soon! ^-^

A pale blue monstrosity now stands before my very own eyes. Although my sight is partially impaired by this heavy helmet of mine, which has brought me through countless battles, I can still see the atrocious form of the creature. Its voice, resonating through the garden. The voice of a broken man, of a maddened king, of a shredded father. “Ahh, you ignorant slaves. Finally taken notice, have you? Of the power of my beloved Ocelotte, child of dragons. Well, I will not give him up. For he is all that I have.” his words are. I remember this name. Ocelotte, the youngest son the queen gave birth to, the son of the Consumed King, Oceiros. His appearance, no longer the one of the man everyone used to have in their minds, but now horribly twisted in the one of a naked, scaleless dragon. His eyes are no longer, and his back is painfully bent onwards, forcing the poor creature on a fragile looking branch.  
I breathe in, and focus a little. This shall be no easy battle, and although I, an Unkindled One, is incapable of leaving this world, I am bound to my everlasting quest: to link the First Flame is my duty, and fulfill it is my only purpose. My fingers tighten the grip on my sword, and the armor squeaks under the shallow rust that so much blood I shed has created. My legs slowly start pacing forward, as the once man moves uncertain steps towards me. The armor is no longer heavy on my shoulders, as I carried it for so long sometimes I even forget its presence altogether. I move my shield a little closer to my chest, and with a short breath, I dash forward lunging on the half-dragon's leg. The sword pierces through the seemingly smooth skin of the monster, but I can clearly tell this is not going to be a breeze. The skin feels much tougher, it feels thicker and less elastic. Oceiros grunts in pain, and eventually hops away. It sure looked way more fragile than it apparently is. Keeping a focused stance, my shield is raised, but as I see the creature is facing me, without actually doing anything, I relieve my arm, lowering my shield once again. Its surface, once blue embedded with the golden pattern of a dragon, is now dented, the colors hardly recognizable. However, it still is one of the best shields this unforgiving world has given me, for sure. The magic of the green, flowery ring of cloranthy flows in me, and I feel my muscles ready, once again to hit and back off. The dragon exhales slowly, and a sparkling breath comes out of its nostrils. Oh such a dumb move of mine, to run in to punish the abomination, as it slams its staff to the ground, and my feet are immediately pierced by shining, straight crystals. My aching groan resonates through my helmet, and I stagger behind, taking some distance from the creature. I pick my green flask, and chug a mouthful. Immediately the quenching warm flow of Estus permeates my torso, easing the pain and granting me strength anew. Realizing how threatening this seemingly easy foe actually is, perhaps a different approach might save me again. I clack my shield to my back, clench my fist and feel the gentle warmth of the flame pervading it. As I open my fingers again, I see the shy lingering light of the pyromancy flame dance in my palm. My arm moves on its own, launching a black fireball, aiming for the beast's head. The explosion engulfs him, and I see its feet hold a little less. I take my chances, and loading another one in my hand, the bursting projectile scorches Oceiros' face once more, and it screeches, kneeling on his hands.  
The staff he formerly used falls with a wooden sound, and the blind fury rages in its mind, screaming once more a name, it permeates the ruined arena, as the innocent cry of a baby pierces my ears. My brain rings and I am stunned long enough for Oceiros to clash his claws on my heart. His touch is cold, as hard as crystal, and the pain shoves me back in reality. Not-so-hastily rolling on his side, I manage to dodge the other disturbed hand, which clearly aimed for my head. I take another sip, and I pick my shield again, ready to face the aberration. I breathe a sigh, again, as my lips touch the dampened, cold metal of my helm. Ready to fight the Consumed King, I dash, raising my blade.

“My dear, little Ocelotte...” he whimpers, as his heaved body collapses on the ground. The silver shining skin is torn apart, as a dense, dark-red blood slowly pours out. Before it could even pool however, its body started decomposing, and the slim flow of white shining fragments is collected in the depths of my being, as I feel a great power filling my insides. When souls enter your body, or rather, when you collect so many souls you feel like you are a living being for a slim moment. As thousands of past beings are being absorbed by your empty shell you can almost hear a faint beat, despite your heart has been still for so long now. And from the depths of your mind, the crazed madness of becoming a hollow slips behind a bit more, and you feel a strange relieving. Some are eager to see their conscience fading away, as they think it would ease the pain. Being no longer yourself, not being aware of who you were and what surrounds you… it might be a form of relief, indeed.  
Oh, that sound. The sound of a bonfire being lit. The faint flame bursts awake from the bone pieces and dust, and warms the surrounding. The dancing fire wraps and caresses the coiled sword, and as I rest nearby it, I take a moment to appreciate the miracle that is sitting at one of these sanctuaries of restoration around the world. For a second, you are safe. All your wounds receive immediate soothe, and all of your hardships find resolution. My head falls tired for a moment to the side, and then to the other. I lift my helm, granting me some fresh air for a minute. Hastily, I run a hand through my hair. It is dirty, knotted, dampened in sweat and drenched in dry blood. Oh, how I miss the simple life I used to have, before I fell in my grave, when I was in Astora. The only memory I have from it is but a simple straight sword, my sword. Forged and molded in the very lands I myself am from. Staring at the flame, it almost feels as if I could go back any moment soon, drop this uncomfortable armor which so proudly displays the crest of my homeland, and live again, go back, being the person I have always been. Alas, my fate has been much more cruel. Cursing me through this burning sign on the back of my shoulder, scorched and branded for eternity, lest I become hollow, or fulfill my task.  
Nevertheless, soon the time for restoration is no more, and pushing my trustworthy headgear back in place, I bid farewell to the safety of the fire, and venture forth, towards the door I have been giving my back to for the past few moments. Once burst open, I find an oddly amusing corpse greeting me, a once knight, sitting with his legs tightly crossed, in a silent meditating pose. Strong, still, everlasting, as if it was to honor the nonsensical dragons' dogma some fools pursue. Besides the lone creature I stumbled into before: a curious hybrid between a snake and a man, the room seems to be as small as it looks, with no other way out. A lonely chest sits in the back of the space, only to gift me with some titanite shards, well appreciated. Seemingly empty, and since nothing else feels to be worth of attention, perhaps taking a break from this madness and easing the weight of all these souls could be a pleasing experience, but indeed, it appears some projection from another world has come to help me. I stare at the thin silhouette, about to crush in dust anytime soon, as it points a finger towards me, or rather, towards my direction. Collapsing once again in a cloud of nothingness, my mute helper has vanished. With it, I can hear their echo, far away, whispering a message in my mind. The few words I can make out from their otherworldly speech – 'illusion' and 'ahead' – are enough to make me understand. Bashing the bricks with my blade tears the lie apart, and a pitch black sight now stands before my feet.


	2. Champion Gundyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unkindled One dives in the Untended Graves, until he remembers what this place resembles, and calls out for help against Champion Gundyr.

A sweep of nothingness greets me, and I carefully step forward. No sound comes forth, not even a breeze of air. Everything is still, my ears ring, and the only thing I hear is the hollowness of this place. One, two, I skip down the ledge, and I see the loneliness of a pile of bones, ready to burn in front of my feet. With a stiff movement of my gauntlet, its warmth blasts immediately through the surroundings, now creating a familiar crackling noise, that kind of sound which sends you shivers down the spine, of mere joy and sheer happiness. That kind of noise.   
I do not really like this place, it feels… wrong, somehow. It has a staggering feeling of familiarity whatsoever, but it is not the sensation that overwhelms you when you get in the camp after a whole day of fighting, when the gentle scent of the smooth stew pierces your nostrils, and you just fall to your knees, realizing you are way more hungry than you should be. No, not at all. It was that odd feeling of complete and deep discomfort, as if you had been in that place time and again, over and over many times before.   
I now leave the bonfire, and its silent hissing of the flame behind me. I venture forth, but this place is not dark. It doesn't lack light, but it is… black. Jet black. Complete absence of any colour. Yet, somehow, I could still clearly make out the shapes in front of my pupils without too much effort, even having the heavy headpiece on the skull, the dark hair and cold metal in the way. Still, I do not feel safe. If I keep my breath in, even for a moment, I can hear creatures growling nearby me. This is enough to put me on my toes, and I hastily unsheathe my sword, clenching my shield. A path unravels to my left, and I venture in. After some steps, not too far, I spot a handful of creatures. I recognize those. Some time ago, as I was trying to find a way to the Lords, I stumbled in those beings. Horrible mutations, heretics which listen to their mindless storytellers, scarily grasping their huge daggers, and as their pitiful screech fills the air, grotesque dark grey wings spread from their back, hollow people now as black as a crow. The only thing that prevented me from losing my sanity on that day was meeting my comrade fellow, another lost soul as I am. Anri, what a kind being. Always in pair with Horace, that silent yet strong knight. Until… until I found him at the bottom of a boiling lake. I was just trying to hide from the gargantuan blasts of that mechanical crossbow, but as I thought I found a safe spot I found Horace swinging his halberd in my face. Gone hollow, a fate which eventually awaits all of us. I did not have the guts to tell Anri, I could never. I hid it. Kept it in me. But I could not move a step more without thinking about that tragic loss, until I could redeem myself. The legends were true, and as I gazed in awe at the golden doors of the mythical Anor Londo, a faint glittering by the stairs caught my eyes. A prismatic stone. It was odd, but as I looked more carefully, I could read the letters glow in a pale white light: “Anri of Astora”. That was my chance. I prayed to the sign, and awakened in another world, my feet drenched in the inhuman slime Aldrich had produced, so much it filled the entire room by a wholesome. The horrendous creature moved like a filthy snake, a reptile made of the countless bones, and the cursed flesh of all the clueless victims who fell under the implacable hunger of the oh so virtuous cleric. The knight looked at the shapeless mass, and I could hear the armour clatter. Fear, dread filled the room, yet Anri did not hesitate a single moment, and in the blink of an eye, both of our swords were to avenge our fallen companion.   
None of us had any intention to stop or worse, to give up, before the beast was dead. As its corpse shattered in a myriad of souls, my existence in that world was soon to end, and I was swept away, back in front of the humongous doors. That was the last time I saw Anri. Or rather, the last time I have seen Anri as Anri. A unique warrior, wielding a very personal sword of Astora, and with the same set of armour I carry on my shoulders, and the very same shield my knuckles hold. However, a shadow of such courage haunted the stairway towards the Cathedral of the Deep, where a now empty shell faced me in combat. I could not turn back, and all I could do, was put that hollow out of its misery, but I would not have rejected my code, and gave the damned a proper burial. One thing that was missing from the corpse was the sword. Apparently, Ludleth was left a gift for me, which I could not refuse. I still carry it with me, and keep it polished as a memento, but I still have to find the strength to wield it, for my spirit is crushed by memories each time I look at it. Perhaps it will come a day where I set my mind aside, and pull it out of its sheathe. 

My legs crash back to reality as my head got struck with an ungodly scream. The crow-like creatures were enraged by my presence, but I know how they behave, so taking them out is not a hard task. They were collecting around a grave, an open coffin. Peering into it, a trinket is ready for me to pick up. A ring, and as I take it, my side is chilled for a moment. My ashen estus flask got colder, up to the point tiny ice crystals started condensing on it. The ring looked like the same, with small grey spikes shivering all over its circumference. It is a dead end, but as I turn back to get on my former path, I cannot help but finally realize where I am. This place is one and the same with the Cemetery of Ash, where I first awakened in this dying land of Lothric, I cannot be mistaken. Hastily, I dig from my mind all the images I have of the place, and start puzzling the pieces to create myself an accurate depiction of the zone and its map, lest I get lost and have to resort to one of my few homeward bones, for I have less than half a dozen with me. 

After some strutting around, and a couple of forced trips back to the bonfire, I finally manage to pull out my sword from that damned hollow's throat, bloody bastard with the crossbow.   
The place is, once again, nothing new to me, and I can recall this to be the arch leading to Iudex Gundyr. Now, taking a look inside, I see him, again, kneeling in the middle of its arena. However, a deeper terror roots my bones, making my movements harder. I do not feel safe, and I am very keen on resorting to other people help. Fellows from other worlds, companions sharing my hardships.  
I crush a piece of ember in my palm, and I feel the blazing power running in my still veins again. We Unkindled can only use the embers as a cheap tactic to feel closer to what we are destined to become: a Lord of Cinder, bound to link the Flame once more, lest this world falls into darkness. Soon, many words light the ground, white, golden, some even purple. I call a couple of them, hoping this to be quick and without any failures. One is a pious knight, wearing the well known armour of Faraam, the almighty god of war venerated in the faraway land of Drangleic, while another embraced the dogmas of the Undead Legion, wrapping his flesh in their cloaks, and refusing the concept of a shield in battle. As the Legion wants, I greet such soldiers with the typical gesture shared between the lines of the Abyss Watchers, and I get the same movement mimicked by said knight, and the Faraam warrior greets me with a deep and respectful bow. I take a steady breath, and I clasp my shield to my back, snapping the luminous flame in my left hand. I descend the stairs and imbue the blade with the flames of Carthus Arc. As soon as the stone warrior straightens his back, I raise my shield, and luckily, my mind is soon calmed even by the slightest by the sound of both of my phantoms crossing the fog barrier to run in my help. I dash backwards, holding my stance, as I take a moment to rest my arm, shaken by the unbound strength of the mighty enemy I am now to face. The battle is tough, tedious, and unfortunately, it was only a matter of sheer minutes before it got even worse. As Gundyr stomped the ground, he let a powerful roar, his eyes now ablaze with a red glow. Without even realizing, he had already dashed in front of me, and briefly after I am pushed away with an unbelievable kick. My breath is cut short, and I fall ruinously to the ground. My dread is only amplified by the pained screams my helpers are letting out, and I feel their pain resonating within me. Without much time to think about it, all I can do is to force myself within the gruesome stage, and the only thing I can now think of is to pray. I kneel down, holding tight to the sun blessed talisman in my hand, whispering the tales of old gods. By the power of the Father Sun, I do not falter even under the striking strength of the foe, and as my prayer comes to an end, life springs anew in my vicinity, filling us with power and will to live again. As the Faraam knight raises the sword to the sky, a circle of power engulfs us, empowering all of our capacities. With the might of the Gods filling our bones, Gundyr now fades in a cloud of soul speckles. I bid farewell to my kind colleagues, and I sit again at a bonfire, the fire closing all of my wounds and filling my flasks to the brim. I decide to not stay long by, for I wish to leave, eagerly, might I add. 

Now, I push the gigantic doors on the other side of the arena, and I gaze towards my destination. What seems to be the Firelink Shrine of this underworld thrones up in the distance, and the only thing separating me from its doors are some legendary black knights of Lord Gwyn, protecting this sacred sanctuary from trespassers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Se here's the second chapter! I'd like to point out that I'm trying all my best to keep the identity of the Unkindled One as vague as I can, especially concerning gender, so that everyone can dive in the fic better. I'm also trying to give long introspections their right space and place, as when I play these games, that's what I do. I go back with my memories, remembering old encounters and old beasts, and I think about those a lot. I hope you all don't mind ;>  
> So there it is, hope you enjoy! \\[T]/


	3. Eyes of the Firekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unkindled One concludes their trip to the world where the fire has faded, and the only thing to witness such fate is a pair of now dead, black eyes.

It does not take long to figure out the reason the old Father of Light put so much trust in these former Silver Knights. Their fighting skill is terrific, and the arts their weapons are crafted with were long lost blacksmithing secrets. I am sure Andre would make good use of those, a humble blacksmith, always there in the Undead Parish ready to cheer you up and kindly ask you to not make his work go to waste. Surely, it is something I do not intend on doing, as each death brings me a step further, closer to hollowing. Now, I wonder what was of that lad of arms I used to travel with. Yjorin was his name. A skilled swordsman indeed, with only the habit of running around in funky clothes, or no clothes what-so-ever. Still, this did not stop him from being incredibly valuable. He was even carrying my same weaponry: a sturdy sword crafted in the long lost land of Astora. I do not wonder the ways he caught such an amazing item in his hands, but all I know is that he indeed made a terrific use of it. His fighting style was just as unique. Since he was not fond of fighting with any kind of effectively protecting armour, you could see him dashing, confusing enemies with his many jumps and flips, where he just disappeared into thin air for a moment, only to reappear some foots ahead, hastily scrubbing burnt charcoal resin on his weapon, emerging victorious from a valiant fight with the aberrations this lands only holds and gifts us with. I remember him, and spending so much time with him, talking by the weakened bonfire. It appears that when two worlds collide, the fire burns weaker, disturbed by the presence, whether it is threatening, or whether it is not. I remember clearly having thrived against many foes with his help, as somehow, the golden writings always figured somewhere in front of my footsteps, denying help from such an acquainted fellow is no thing I would ever do.   
Nevertheless, still, one day, I never found him ever again. No name such as his one was displayed by the bright letterings, and never was I ever dragged in his world. Many times indeed have I tried scribbling what I remember being my appellative, but only alien faces were before me. All I can do is hope for him, lest he goes hollow and forgets. Hollow, escaping from such a state is what keeps me remembering, what keeps me fighting. Clinging onto who I am is the only way to not fall, the only way to hold to this world, for my soul is not to disappear, not yet.   
With a sharp movement of my arm, I shrug the charred blood of the knights off my sword, standing still I hear not any noise, for the threats are now vanquished. The blade finds rest in its hilt, and the shield which is supposed to never be facing downwards is hanging from my tired arm. Indeed, those were no easy encounters, but I am certain this is not their full strength. After millennia, burnt to their very bones, the knights once chanted of in ballads are but a dark shadow of their neverending glory. The passage leading to the inside of the building is still shut, for my glimpse is caught by a detail off in the distance. To my right, a known blade rests quietly upon a grave. Even if I knew the victim, I would still struggle to make out their former name, as the engraving on the stone has long been eroded by time. The sword however, is enough to make me kneel, forcing myself to pay respect to the only one who used to be a woman guarding Father Gwyn. Ciaran was her name, whispered only in the oldest tales from Oolacile. Artorias was the name of the warrior who could only wield such a majestic piece of refinery, the one who first watched over the Abyss, but could not escape its darkness. It is said that a long lost knight arrived, and saved the princess from the everlasting suffering in the bottomless blackness of Manus' grasp, a quest not even the Wolf Knight could ever succeed in. So was their story, and the only thing now left behind, a single witness of their greatness is but a small ring engraved in an ancient ring, depicting a hornet. Apparently, She was called like that. Her blades like dancing in her palms, and her skill in duelling was yet to be paralleled. My honour forbids me to steal the beloved sword of the knight, for it is the dearest thing to a warrior, but I shall conserve this small ring, a memento to this instant, to remember.   
The gate is shut no longer, and the sight of the Firelink Shrine, despite empty, is still a soothing gaze, a safe place for me to be, not to worry about perils in the rest of Lothric. However, emptier is how it could be properly described. Without the gentle crackling of the bonfire, the Firekeeper always tending to it, and the lack of the hammer beating on Andre's trusty anvil this place is colder. Yet, in the middle, where the bonfire was once burning, only a shard of a coiled sword remains. Nostalgic, I can sense it. In the moment I grasped the relic, I felt it eager to go back to his place, where it once was. Mayhaps, it shall serve the same purpose of the old homeward bones, rests of the fallen who only seek the comfort of the fire.  
Where once was Yoel, only ashes now stay. Dark, they are. Dark as the fate bound to the pilgrim, a hollow who was only trying to find his way. Surely, the handmaid will make good use of this, hence I carefully drop a handful in a tiny leather sack I always carry. Where once was Andre, a very similar station awaits someone to brandish the hammer who sits lonely on the metal. Perhaps Andre could find a purpose for such a trusty tool, and I shall bring it to him.   
At last, it appears this place is not entirely new. A red hooded old woman sits lonely in her chair, and as I approach her, she seems to acknowledge my presence.   
“Well, fancy that. A lost lamb wandereth in, with nary a peep from the bell. Well, thou shouldst my purpose know. What can this old handmaid provide thee?”. And so, she then proceeds to enlighten me with her wares. Was it not for some armour and a ring, her sells would be the very same of the still bright world, but those are no ordinary armour, and that is not a simple ring. Indeed, so it appears that she is in possession of the Wolf Knight's tattered protection. Yes, the Abyss has broken it down, consumed it. The leggings are unmistakeably broken, made rotten by a force that should be left unknown. The ring, a cameo of the High Priestess, one of the Three watching and governing Lothric.   
But even the sight of the kind maiden is not enough to make this locus feel more familiar. I cannot help but feel a sense of coldness, a hissing dread crawling up my spine. As I look at the wall in front of me, I remember Irina, who is sitting a few steps across, waiting for her Champion. As my hand touches the barrier, the lie is dispelled, and a body is sitting alone, looking at time as it passes without it.   
A couple of eyes are held firmly in its hands. Clutched onto as tightly as it could, to never let go of them. Dark and cold, they feel like stone, engraved to be oh so similar to ourselves, what guides us forth in this mission. Cold, they feel as if they had seen some regrettable things. Perhaps, the Firekeeper could see now, and she shall help me in seeing my path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close now! In the next chapter, the actual showdown will take place, so look no further, for the story of the Unkindled One who saw the light is to end soon.


	4. The Coiled Sword

The engulfing pale mist lets go of my senses, and the first thing I hear is the familiar clashing of Andre's hammer on the anvil, off at the end of the corridor. I am once again back to the Firelink Shrine, and admitting it, I cannot indeed deny I feel somewhat tense to give what I most recently found to the Firekeeper. Nervous is one way to say such feeling, but rather, it is the feeling of something deeply wrong. Those eyes, they feel as they are a mistake in the history of the world itself. Yet, another piece of my being compels me in completing this delivery. The everlasting Firekeeper sits alone on one of the circular steps converging eventually to the bonfire, blindly staring in its direction, as quiet as this world feels in this very moment. As I slowly approach her, she immediately gets up on her feet, gently patting her gown, then holding her own hand again, as she always uses to do. Surely, she must have learned the sound my steps make, for so many times I have gone back to her, seeking some advice, or kneeling before her, reaching far into the darkness, dwelling inside of her pale being. “Welcome Home, Ashen One. Speak thine heart's desire.” she tells, as she has always done so many times before. My fingers carefully reach out in my small pouch, and feeling the couple of round pebbles entwined in my fingers, I carefully hold them, and show them to the Firekeeper. Quietly, as emotionless as always, she holds a hand towards me, waiting for my gift.   
“...Ashen One, are these… Are these eyes?” she asks, humbling. “Indeed they are.”  
Her head was bent, as she was looking at them. Once her blocked gaze is once again towards me, her tiny mouth flinches by the slightest. In the blink of an eye, she clutches her fist so tight, the stones crumble in a snap, as a cloud of whispers dissipates around her.   
“How disgraceful of thee, Ashen One.” her voice tolls again, not having changed by the slightest. “Thou'st not the Champion I was waiting for. Forgive me, but thou'st not suited to be a Lord of Cinder.” what is slowly flowing from her mouth, in her always gentle and calm voice, is now a threat, countless sharp knives holding their edges right on my throat. Andre's hammer is no longer punching metal, and the absolute silence is only dictated by the light steps the Firekeeper does in order to approach the bonfire. Firmly, she grasps the grip of the coiled sword. Strongly, she takes it away from its everlasting rest.   
“Forgive me Ashen One, for thine journey ends here once and forever.” her voice vibrates, as the room is now engulfed in a thick cloak of palpable darkness.   
Before I can even command myself anything, the incandescent tip of the sword hastily moves towards me, burning me in an upwards slash, crossing the entirety of my chest. With a cry, I stagger behind, utterly dumbfounded by the Firekeeper's unspeakable strength. Seeing the dancing red light of the sword approaching me again, with a dash I jump the the left, so the strike barely touches the tip of my helm. Hastily, Estsus floods my dry mouth, and the burning sensation in the middle of my chest is replaced by a quick and gentler warmth. As relentless as I could not thing she would have been, or she could even, the blazing sword strikes again, and this time I am forced to run backwards, the fire trails just dancing before my eyes. Before I can even catch my breath she goes for a long lunge, but behind me there is nothing but a wall, as my fingers, still not intent to grasp anything to aid me, touching the cold stone the sanctuary is made of. All I can do is try and move to the side, for I have no breath left for another jump, not with such a heavy gear on me. In that brief moment she struggles to pull the sword from the wall, I reach for my shield on my back, and unsheathe my sword.   
“Come Ashen One. Thine embers shall be of use to whom is bound to take thy place.” she whispers, a tone not even barely shook by the weight of the battle. Rather, in those quick moments when I can see the embers faintly light her silk face, her expression is still as firm as ever.   
Quick steps move towards me, and her arm moves once more, about to crash on me. With a reflex, an unwanted movement, I shake my shield towards the sword, in a pitiful attempt to break her guard parrying her assault. Of no use it is whatsoever. In a majestic show of combat skill, the momentum I pushed back with the impact on my shield does not make her stagger back, rather, in a quick and graceful movement, her sword goes back in her direction, aided by the work of feet she exquisitely executed. Like a quiet butterfly dancing around her flower, in a graceful spin she uses my counterattack against me, slashing her way through my armor, on my right hip. How useless it is, to try and fight such an incredibly skilled warrior indeed. The attack numbs my senses for a movement, and I am forced out of my guard stance. Stumbling, I move some tempting steps away, clenching my teeth, trying to forget the hellish pain branding my flesh. Pitiless as an euphemism, her sword hits me again, twice, thrice. My knees are no longer of use, my utterly weakened body grasps for air, falling to my toes. It is useless, I know it. Oh how fool of me to believe even for a single instant I could put up a match against her. However, she stands still, and merely guided by my survival instinct, I reach out for my so beloved Estus flask again, one last time. It is now cold. It is no longer of use, for the liquid inside has turned to cold ashes. Being the Firelink bonfire gone, nothing is left to refill the warm spirits inside of the green casket. Only in dread I can look, as it shatters before my very own eyes, no longer being held together by any force.   
Fortunately still, my pain finds a short life, for in a breeze, nothing exists anymore.

Now gone to unkindled consumed embers, the body of a knight whose name was known by no one collapses in pieces.   
“May thee still serve thine purpose in death, Ashen One.” casts the Firekeeper, as the coiled sword finds her way through the lifeless head of a brave knight, who only committed a fatal mistake in such a perilous journey.  
For the Firekeepers shall always be blind, so that Darkness never takes over this fading world. 

Farewell, Ashen One. 

May the flames guide you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No summary for my last chapter of this brief story, only so you can remember it, and may you recall of it if you seek memories by a bonfire. So that this tale dances on your lips, and passes from knight to squire, to remember the only thing one must never forget, lest their journey ends prematurely.  
> A Firekeeper is to never have eyes.   
> For it is forbidden.


End file.
